“No, but I would like a thank you, considering most of the work I had to do this morning was on your behalf.”
A warning bell goes off deep inside me. I force myself into a sitting position, barely managing not to whimper as the light hits my bleary, hungover eyes and a really bad marching band starts playing in my head. “Me? What’s going on?”
Has more information about my torture leaked online?
Have the photographs they took when I was in that hellhole finally surfaced?
Has our father made a formal, final decision about me losing the throne?
My stomach clenches up as I try to figure out what would be worse. For me, definitely the formal decision to end progenitor as we know it. For Wildemar? At this point I just don’t know.
It’s a blow to admit that, considering I’ve always known what was best—and worst—for Wildemar. The fact that I’m so messed up now that I don’t? Maybe the King is correct in thinking about changing the order of succession.
After all, the last time the news got hold of a few of my hospital pics, it caused such an uproar that it was news for weeks as the world speculated about just what had happened to me during the three months I was missing. After that disaster, we classified everything, locking my records and the investigation down as tightly as we possibly could. But if I’ve learned nothing else during my time in the palace in the social media age, it’s that absolutely nothing is foolproof. Or leak-proof.
And since I’m trying to figure out how to mount one last defense aimed at my father, the last thing I need right now is the details of my torture being made public. I’m barely hanging on to my title as it is—though my father hasn’t yet made a public declaration that Kian is the heir, speculation has been rampant for a while, especially since he’s been doing so much of the head-of-state stuff.
Info about the torture will just fan the flames—not to mention give my father, and Parliament, all the ammunition they need to set me publicly aside. And while it’s already been done privately, I can’t help but hold out hope that—as long as it doesn’t come down by royal decree—I have some small chance of being able to serve Wildemar as I was born to do.
“I assume you haven’t checked a news site in the last two hours?” Kian drawls. “Or social media? Or your phone? Or your email? I’ve got to say, you’ve got good taste. The redhead is adorable.”
My hands start to shake—another fun by-product of the torture—even as I reach for my tablet and swipe it open. “What happened.” This time it’s a demand, not a question.
Kian must hear the difference, because he goes from teasing to serious in the space from one breath to the next. “You’re on the home page of every gossip and news site in the western hemisphere, bro. That kiss with Lola Barnes was something else. I have to admit, I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Oh, fuck.” My blood runs cold. “I was at her cottage in the middle of nowhere, at midnight. Who the hell was taking pictures?”
“Some photographer who spotted you climbing the fence at a closed public park,” Kian answers, and the amusement is back in his voice. “Everyone’s speculating that the badass entrepreneur behind Va Voom Vintage has turned Good Boy Garrett into a rebel.”
“Va Voom Vintage?” I feel like he’s speaking another language—one other than the eight I’m fluent in.
“Too busy getting to know Lola to really get to know her, huh?”
“You sound like a frat boy.”
“You can take the boy off the yacht, but you can’t take the yacht out of the boy,” he answers far too cheerfully for my liking. Especially since I’ve been scrolling through the feed of a major news agency for only about thirty seconds and I’ve already found three pictures and five mentions of Lola and me.
Shit. This thing is really blowing up. And I am a total asshole for thinking it was just a few locals last night. For not realizing that paparazzi might have been mixed among the villagers.
And because I didn’t think about it, because I thought no one but the locals knew where I was, I brought this on her. I took her out, didn’t notice when some asshole photographer spotted us, then led him straight to her doorstep. Now she’s alone out there in that cottage, and God only knows how many other photographers have found her at this point.
“Hold on a minute,” I tell my brother. Then I fire off a text to Samuel, demanding that he get someone over to Lola’s house to scope things out—and to protect her if she’s under siege.
He answers right away, assuring me he’s already on it, and while it doesn’t satisfy me about her safety, it’s all I can do right now, until I figure out just how bad this thing is.
“What do Jacob and Liese think we should do?” I ask Kian, referring to the two people in charge of palace PR.
“That depends. Do you want the official line they’re giving Dad or the one they’re feeding me under the table?”
“There’s a difference?” There shouldn’t be. I’ve spent my whole life learning to toe the palace line, to follow the official statements to the letter. Kian’s heir to the throne for a few months and suddenly there are back-channel communications? What the hell is going on?
“There is if you want to turn this into the chance you’ve been looking for to get the throne back.”
I switch to a prominent gossip site, which has taken the pics—and the story—and run with it. “How can me fooling around with an American—one whose job is apparently selling old clothes online—help me convince the King to trust me again? Especially when that ship sailed the minute I let myself get kidnapped.”
“You didn’t let yourself get kidnapped,” Kian tells me, exasperation ripe in his tone. “Ten mercenaries came after you. What were you supposed to do?”
“Throw myself on my sword, apparently. Since undergoing months of torture without spilling any state secrets isn’t enough for him.” Then again, maybe it’s just me that’s not enough for him.